Connection
by newspapercabs
Summary: A series of unrelated shorts. Reese/Finch.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**Pairing/Characters: pre-slash Reese/Finch, OC**

**A/N: Ok, this has been in taking up residence in my head for _weeks_ now and I had to get it out. This is my first PoI fanfic and I'm really nervous, since I'm not sure how well I wrote their characters (specifically Reese).**

**A/N 2: I just want to thank Katica Locke for pointing out my typos. I think I got them all.  
**

**I might make this into a series of unrelated shorts.  
**

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**Jealous**

_It was puppy love_, John decided, an amused smirk etching itself across his lips. _One-sided puppy love._

One of Finch's many alias's (specifically Harold Wren, one of his oldest and longest running ones) had attracted a handsome middle-aged man with an easy smile and a slightly overbearing personality. If John had felt even the slightest hint of a threat from him, the man would've never gotten within twenty feet of Finch.

But it was another emotion that had John tailing the man as he wandered around Manhattan running errands, along with looking up everything about the man in question. (Just because he couldn't hack into every surveillance camera in the city, didn't mean he didn't know how to find personal information on the Internet).

As he followed the man inside the grocery store, he mentally reviewed everything he had found out about him: Kyle Reynolds was 48, a graduate from Harvard Law and was a well-paid attorney with a good case record. Grew up in San Diego, California with a single mom (now deceased) and a younger sister (now a teacher) that lived in Virginia.

He was 6'2", standing well above Finch and even stood a little taller than him (Reese being 6'1"). Reynolds was generally well-liked, even for an attorney, but despite the reassurances that Kyle wasn't some hired killer in waiting, John still found himself following him.

He justified his actions, by telling himself it was for Finch's safety, to make sure Reynolds didn't pressure Finch into anything _unsavory._ (Not that the paranoid man _would_ do anything, lord knew that Finch had politely deflected every offering to dinner and blatantly ignoring every purred innuendo that had spilled from Reynolds lips), which had filled Reese with smug satisfaction and a strange, but comforting kind of warmth that he wasn't all that comfortable trying to identify.

He watched Reynolds out of the corner of his eye as the man grabbed a carton of milk, placing it in the cart before heading towards the vegetable aisle. Reese waited for him to disappear behind the corner before starting after him again, checking his phone absently in the hopes that Finch might've tried to contact him.

There hasn't been a new Number in over forty-eight hours and Reese just knew that the paranoid genius was probably having his stilted version of a nervous breakdown, worrying about whether or not the government had discovered his backdoor.

Reese highly doubted it. No one in the government, whether in the NSA, CIA or FBI, could hold a candle to Finch's computer skills; the backdoor Finch had created would remain undiscovered for a long, long time.

X.

The food in Reynolds's cart suggested the intention of a romantic dinner, with fresh salmon and myriad of complementary vegetables along with a case of expensive white wine; it probably wasn't too far off the mark.

At least, that's what the cashier thought, as she happily rang him up with a smile. Reynolds returned it, ending the silent exchange as he took his bags and stepped back, out into the crowded New York streets.

After following him to his apartment in uptown Manhattan he doubled back towards the library, hoping to catch Finch there before—

He stopped. Before _what?_ Before Reynolds was done preparing dinner? To warn Finch about the call he would no doubt receive from him? He nearly snorted at thought of Finch accepting the flamboyant man's invitation, but still—his chest tightened at the thought of Finch possibly accepting (the probability of it happening was probably in the negatives, but _still_—)

The heavy, unfamiliar emotion that he had forced down when the man had first made his intentions clear suddenly returned with a vengeance, hitting him like a brick wall. He could've smacked himself. _Unbelievable._ He was _jealous_.

Reynolds doesn't even know the first thing about Finch and the reclusive billionaire hasn't even showed the slightest interest in him, but still Reese had felt that jealously (_protectiveness_, Reese argued) spring up, urging him into action, to guard to what he perceived as _his_.

His to look after, to protect, to… _love_. In the months that he had begun working for Finch, he had found more than just a prickly, but genuinely good-hearted boss, he had a found a friend and (now) possibly something more.

Tossing one last look over his shoulder at the lit apartment, he started towards the library again.

He and Finch had something to discuss.

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**A/N: Please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**A/N: ****This _will_ be a series of unrelated one-shots, but since so many people wanted Finch's side of things I made an exception and made a little sequel. I hope you like it! **

**A/N 2: Revised version.  
**

**Also, I would like to thank everyone who reviewed! You're the best!  
**

**Enjoy!**

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**Jealous (Finch)**

There were downsides to having Will home, Finch observed wryly. His nephew's fumbling attempts at matchmaking for one.

He had internally cringed upon first meeting the jovial Mr. Reynolds ("Please call me Kyle," he insisted with a grin), when the man had grabbed his hand in both of his, holding it for a second longer than was polite.

He sincerely hoped Reese wasn't spying on him today. The thought of Reese seeing this man's flirtatious attempts on him made him uneasy.

As if he were afraid the former agent might get the wrong idea—although, the wrong idea about what? Him not being available? Finch internally scoffed at the idea; like Reese would be attracted to an old, crippled man that was more than a few years past his prime.

_Ridiculous._

Will, meanwhile, had been busy smirking conspiratorially in the corner and Finch promised himself that the next time his _beloved_ nephew landed himself in jail due to his lack of common sense at the time, he was _not_ going to bail him out.

Resigning himself to a long day of playing a character that should've been disposed of years ago, he allowed himself to be bullied into lunch by Will, with the _generous_ company of Mr. Reynolds coming along as well.

X.

Finch almost snapped at him when Reynolds offered to help him down the stairs, offering his hand.

He brushed him off with a curt, "I can manage," before hobbling down the stairs, pointedly ignoring the railing. He bit back an exasperated sigh as he noticed Will whispering something to the older man, probably tips on how not to offend him.

Resisting the urge to pin the two with a knowing glare, he started towards the waiting car sitting patiently on the curb. However, before he could reach it a hand landed gently on his shoulder, making Finch stiffen in defense (Reese is the only one he can stand to touch him without flinching).

Twisting his body, he gave Reynolds a questioning look.

The man in question smiled sheepishly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," he said sincerely.

Finch let the silence thicken for an uncomfortable moment before replying brusquely, "Apology accepted." He only relaxed when Reynolds removed his hand.

And that's when he felt it. The intent, focused gaze of his hired ex-CIA agent.

He didn't bother looking up to search the busy street for him, knowing Reese was almost impossible to find when he wished to remain invisible.

As he slid into the car he felt the heavy weight of Reese's gaze on the back of his head and instead of feeling annoyed (as he usually did) at being spied on he actually felt surprisingly safe, now that he knew that Reese was watching his back.

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**A/N: Tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: Ok, this one is _not _related to the first two. And, I honestly have no idea where this come from.**

**Characters: Reese/Finch, Nathan Ingram (I guess it could be taken as past Ingram/Finch)**

**Enjoy!  
**

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**Anniversary**

November 9, 2010. It's hard for Finch to believe that it's been only three years since Nathan's death; it always seemed much longer, although the feeling of pain and grief was still as raw as the day it happened.

His hands trembled as he poured himself another glass of whiskey and shot it back, not even registering the taste as it burned down his esophagus. He felt his throat swell and choke around a rising sob, he fought to breathe around it as he discarded the glass and simply pulled the bottle closer.

It was still half-full, the amber liquid shining like liquid gold under the florescent lights of his abandoned library. He was going to need more alcohol before the night was through with his friend's ghost haunting his memories.

He took another sip from the bottle, cursing his past arrogance.

If only he had looked at that damned list. If only he had _listened_.

"_We didn't build this to save _some_body. We built it to save _every_body."_ Thoughtless words of his past-self that had been too arrogant, too proud to admit that he might've been wrong.

And that mistake had cost him _everything._

"I'm sorry Nathan," Finch mumbled, "I was wrong. I was _so_ wrong."

Those Numbers had never been _irrelevant_. They had been sons and daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, they were friends and lovers that may have not meant much to the world as a whole, but probably meant the _world_ to those who did love them.

Nathan had understood that the moment he had seen them, but him—he had to lose the one person who had meant the world to _him_ to understand it.

Finch closed his eyes, trying to breathe around the sob crawling determinedly up his throat. "Please forgive me Nate, _please_. I-I—they're not irrelevant anymore, not to me. I'm helping them, Nate. So please, _please_," his voice choked as the first, trembling tears escaped his clenched eyelids, burning crystalline trails down his cheeks. "I'm so _sorry._"

"Finch?"

The sound of his partner's voice cut through his drunken haze of remorse and guilt making him inhale sharply as he sat up abruptly, his back cringing in protest at the sudden movement.

He didn't dare turn around, feeling Reese's eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

"Finch—_Harold_," John amended, "Are you alright?" The teasing cadence that usually belied his words was strangely absent as genuine worry bled through Reese's voice.

"I'm fine Mr. Reese," Finch said, attempting to be blasé, but his voice betrayed him, still raw and shaken by the tears he had just shed and by the alcohol he had been consuming for the past few hours.

A heavy silence fell between them pressing against Finch's shields just as keenly and as uncomfortably as when Reese tried to dig out nuances of his deleted past with his teasing remarks.

"I don't believe you," Reese said bluntly, the sound of his feet pressing closer with each resounding echo against the library floor. "Because if you _were_ fine, I doubt you would be drinking cheap whiskey from the bottle and asking for forgiveness from a person long dead."

Finch felt his heart skip a beat at the knowledge that Reese knew about Nathan before belatedly realizing that he probably should've guessed, after all he knew that Fusco was digging into one of his alias's pasts and that his connection to Nathan Ingram would've come up eventually in his search.

Taking a steadying breath, he set the bottle (now almost empty) on his desk next to his keyboard, resolutely staring at his sleeping screens. Anything to keep from looking John in eye because he would surely notice his dried tears and attempting to wipe them away would only draw attention to them.

"You should get some rest, Mr. Reese," he said, attempting to put as much emotional distance between them as possible. "I'll call you when—"

He was cut off when Reese spun his chair around, "Not again," he said quietly, "you're not pushing me away again."

They both hesitated for a span of a dozen heartbeats before Reese settled his hands on his shoulders, a warm, firm weight holding him in place.

"Please," he breathed, "you don't have to tell me everything. Just-just _trust_ me. I would never hurt you, Harold. If nothing else, believe that."

Finch gaped at him before attempting to swallow, only to discover his mouth had gone dry. He did trust Reese, he _did_. But he hadn't fully trusted anyone since he had been a child, all but forgotten by the foster care system that had been _supposed_ to have been looking out for his best interests, but had failed him in far more ways than he could count.

Not even Nathan, his best friend that he had known for over twenty-five years had only known what Finch had allowed him to know.

So why was this decision so hard? He knew logically that he should push Reese away, go back to 'business as usual', but something was stopping him. A part of him—a part of himself that he had believed had died long ago was urging him to _open_ up.

Not everything, of course, but far more than he would ever even consider. _Is it the alcohol?_ Even as he considered it, he knew it would simply be a convenient excuse. He was drunk, but not _that_ drunk.

"Harold?" Reese said softly, his voice neither prodding or teasing, just making sure he was still _here_.

Forcing himself to look John in the eye, he felt his chest ache at the undisguised sincerity and genuine concern lining his silver-blue eyes. Closing his eyes, he took a shuddering breath and made a choice.

"It was my fault," he began shakily, not daring to look at Reese. "If I had just _looked_ at that damned list, I could've saved him. He was the only one who knew about the Irrelevant list and how I had programmed the Machine; he wanted to help them," his voice choked at his memories of that time flashed behind his eyes.

"_All these people and this damned Machine knew—_you_ knew that someone wanted harm them, _kill_ them and you did nothing."_

Reese, thankfully remained quiet, allowing him to gather the crumbling remnants of his composure.

Opening and closing his mouth several times, he finally forced the horrible truth from his lips, "If it weren't for me, he'd still be alive." If only he hadn't allowed Nate to breach his defenses in college, if only he hadn't asked him to be the public face of his company. _If only_ they hadn't been friends Nathan would still be alive and Finch's life would've been so empty.

And perhaps _he _would've been the one in the coffin rather his best friend.

He train of thought was broken when the hands on his shoulders tightened with an almost frightened desperation, as if Reese knew what he'd been thinking about.

"When we first met, you said I wouldn't have been able to save Jessica," Reese began gently, "and _you_ wouldn't have been able to save Nathan even if you had looked at the list."

In fact, Reese was positive that if Finch _had_ tried to save Ingram the reclusive genius would've ended up in the grave next to his. The government, after all, made a habit of tying up loose ends.

After a moment of almost defensive silence, as if Finch were preparing a counter argument, the fight suddenly seemed to leave his deceptively fragile body, his head bowed forward, the glare on his glasses hiding his tired, red eyes.

Slowly, carefully Reese moved his hands from Finch's shoulders to gently cup his face, absently wiping the drying tears from his cheeks, forcing those haunted, blue eyes to look at him.

And Reese knew in that moment that he would anything to erase that look from Finch's eyes, to ease the haunted whispers of the ghosts that dog his every step and take the weight of the Numbers off his shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Finch found himself relaxing against the almost ghost-like brush of Reese's thumbs against his cheeks; he found the aching emptiness in his chest almost bearable as Reese's presence seemed to soothe the gaping absence Nate had left in him.

A soft press of lips against his temple startled Finch out his soothing reverie, his lightning-blue eyes flashing open in surprise.

Reese only smiled, kissing him gently against the cheek this time. "You're not alone anymore Harold."

And Finch, in complete opposition to his paranoid nature, believed him.

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**A/N: Tell me what you think! Also, if you see any mistakes, please let me know and I'll fix them.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own.  
**

**A/N: This plot-bunny bit me after the last episode and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. This is totally AU and the dialogue is taken directly from the last few minutes of the episode. I'm sorry, I made Nathan a struggling artist. And don't ask me who the face of Finch's company was, I have no idea. I blame this entirely on that damned plot-bunny. Too bad its hiding under the bed where I can't reach it. **

**Pairing/Characters: Reese, Ingram/Finch (I know, I'm not doing a Reese/Finch, I'm surprised to).  
**

_Summary: What if instead of Grace opening the door, it was Nathan Ingram?_**  
**

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**Sacrifice**

"Hello Finch," Reese said to the inconspicuous house as he practically bounded up the steps. He resisted the urge to simply open the door and let himself in, but the prospect of seeing the secretive, paranoid man opening his door to see him was too tempting to resist.

He knocked three times, hard enough to ensure that the sound would be heard.

His nerves twitched in excitement as he heard strong, even footsteps approach the door. _Wait_, his thoughts derailed for a moment, _even footsteps? That can't be right—_

His internal questioning came to abrupt halt as the door pulled open, revealing a tall, blonde middle-aged man with laugh lines running across his face and his blue eyes staring at him curiously.

For a second Reese's mind drew a complete blank, unable to do anything but stare at the man in disbelief before mentally shaking himself.

"Sorry to bother you, Detective Stills," he said, pulling out the stolen badge, "someone reported a disturbance at this address."

The man's eyebrows rose. "Really? I'm the only one here," he said, gesturing inside the house.

The fog of disbelief had disappeared, leaving his mind sharp and curious as he said, "Probably just an old lady who saw a shadow or a kid playing a joke; we just to have to check everything out." Glancing at the pile of magazines at the man's doorstep, he asked, "Do you want help with these?"

The man looked surprised for a brief moment before replying, "Uh, sure. Thanks."

Bending down he grabbed the pile and followed the man back inside. He carefully noted everything, from the wooden dressers to the wine holder pushed up against the bookshelf, to how _lived in_ the house looked, but no how hard he stared and analyzed the house, he could find nothing that indicated that more than one person resided here.

He glanced down at the weight in his arms. "There's about fifty copies here," he muttered to himself as he set it down near the sofa. "Are you a collector?" He asked, turning around to face him.

The man gave him an embarrassed smile. "Well, kind of. They give me extras when its one of mine."

"You draw the covers," Reese realized as he turned around, looking at a bigger picture of the cover of the magazine he had just deposited on the man's floor.

"Yeah, a bit old-fashioned," The man laughed, "since everything's going digital. Print is dying, but every time I think I'll never work again another magazine or newspaper calls, so… I guess I have a guardian angel," he said a smile lighting his features.

Suddenly Reese felt something heavy curl up in his chest. He had a feeling that he knew _exactly_ why this man would never run out of jobs and as he looked around the room, his gaze fell on a picture that gave him his proof as he saw a familiar, but an almost entirely different man smiling from the frame, wrapped in this man's arms that looked just as blissfully happy as the man he was holding.

Looking back briefly at the man, he motioned towards the picture and trying to sound nonchalant, he asked, "Whose this?" He gently grabbed the picture to get a better look.

The bright smile seemed to vanish from the man's face as a deep sadness seemed to bleed into his features, his bright eyes turning dark. "Oh, that's Harold," he said, "My partner—my _fiancé_. We were going to get married up in Canada."

"He looks like a nice guy," He said casually.

"Yeah, he was a very nice guy," the man said, his smile turning fond and his eyes growing softer. "I never thought I'd ever meet anyone who _got_ me," he explained with a wryly smile. "Spending are all your time alone—drawing isn't exactly the best way to find someone," he explained.

"But Harold found me," the man seemed to be torn between smiling and crying as he continued. "I was out painting in the park one day and there was this man eating an ice-cream cone in January and he smiled at me and he asked me if I wanted one."

Reese was never prone to emotional outbursts unless someone had decidedly pissed him off, but he couldn't help swallowing back the tight knot in his throat as he saw the deep and profound ache of loneliness and happy memories that were now too painful and raw to try and remember.

"Does he live here with you?" He couldn't help but ask, although the answer was obvious.

Pain seemed eclipse the man's expression. "No he doesn't," he said quickly, taking the picture from him. "He used to," he said, caressing the frame almost with reverence. "I lost him two years ago… there was an accident."

An image of Finch wounded and broken flashed in Reese's mind as he forced himself to leave the one person who meant the world to him behind, made Reese's heart ache with sympathy and his throat tighten. He swallowed forcing himself to breathe through the ache in his chest. "I'm sorry."

The apology wasn't directed at the man in front of him.

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**Reviews are love!**

**A/N: Please don't kill me for not making it a Reese/Finch. I promise it'll happen next chapter! As always, please point out any errors you see and I'll correct them.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: I couldn't help it. I finally jumped on the werewolf!Reese bandwagon. Also, I blame SeveRemus for this. If it wasn't for her awesome "Wolfhound" fanfiction this plot-bunny would've never been born.  
**

**Character/Pairing: Reese/Finch  
**

_Summary: Reese is a werewolf, contemplating the single member of his pack._**  
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**Pack**

As a werewolf, his pack instincts have always been at the forefront of his mind, especially when the moon began to swell. After he had fled the constraints of the CIA and had learned of Jessica's death he promised himself that he would never allow himself to get close to anyone again.

After he had met Finch, however, that plan had been blown to hell. The seemingly frail, yet powerful man was too interesting to simply be labeled as an _asset_ and then move on. The man was the personification of a mystery, wrapped in dry responses that masked his genuine sincerity and selflessness.

Reese couldn't help but come to care for him. The wolf side of his personality, which had been grown stand-offish and aggressive without a pack to look after, had been gradually tamed by this small, half-lamed man.

Finch, who didn't have a shred of violence within him, who was practically helpless without the aid of his glasses and due to steel rods and unbending bone, could only hobble at a fast walk, completely incapable of defending himself had tamed him. Something even the CIA couldn't claim.

That was why Reese had promised himself that for as long as he was alive, no harm would come to this man. And after so long wandering lost in the darkness, Reese had found a purpose again thanks to Finch; he had found someone to protect again.

He was brought from his musings by Finch's soft snores, nothing more than noisy breaths of air penetrating the sleepy silence as the full moon spilled through the night and cast shadows on the walls.

Lifting his head from his paws he glanced at the waxing moon that was almost invisible due to all the light pollution produced by the city.

He returned his attention to Finch who shifted minutely against the mattress before falling still again. Getting to his feet he padded over to the edge of the bed, scenting the air around his pack mate, he felt a whine try to crawl up his throat when all he smelled was the sharp scent of pain. His hip was causing him problems again.

Finch shifted again, his brows furrowing as the pain fought to bring him to consciousness. Reese nearly growled in defiance at the prospect; Harold needed his sleep. He'd been working for almost three days straight.

Deciding he didn't care if Finch yelled at him for furry sheets tomorrow morning, he carefully got on the bed, pressing his warm side against the throbbing hip. As the warmth quickly spread to the aching scar tissue, he felt Finch slowly release a relieved sigh as his body relaxed once more into sleep.

As the soft, warm weight of contentment curled pleasantly in his chest, Reese found his eyes growing heavy as he placed his head on Finch's chest. The strong, steady thrum of Finch's heart pounding beneath his jaw became his lullaby as the moon filtered through the curtains, lulling him into sleep.

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**Review please! **

**A/N: As always, please tell me if you find any mistakes and I will try to fix them as soon as possible.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

**Character/Pairing: Carter, Reese/Finch  
**

**A/N: This little plot-bunny has been gnawing at my ankles for a few days now and since I finally had time, I decided to let it run. This might turn into its own thing, we'll see how it goes.  
**

**Enjoy.  
**

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**Guard Dog**

If there was one word to describe Reese when the little guy had been hurt on one of their cases, it would definitely be a guard dog, Carter decided.

When she had stepped inside the apartment that Reese had been using as a temporary safe house to drop off the supplies Reese had asked (demanded) her to get, she had found him intently watching over Finch, who was stretched out on the couch with blankets tucked in around him. But it had been Reese's eyes that had stolen her attention; the intensity residing in them hadn't surprised her, the man's eyes were always focused (usually on the person he was following), it was something softer that seemed to linger around the edges that had caught her attention.

His gaze seemed to never leave the little guy's face, as if watching every sleepy, half-formed nuance that flickered across the older man's face. Carter swallowed thickly, trying to smoother the smile that was trying to escape her iron control; dear God, John was in love and the idiot probably didn't even realize it.

Her lips twitched again when she saw his fingers flinch, as if he were stopping himself from soothing the small wrinkles of pain that had formed at the edges of the little guy's eyes and forehead.

Deciding that she had watched long enough she stepped forward, out the shadowed doorway, her shoes echoing dimly in the room.

The speed of the gun pointed in her direction momentarily stole her breath away and she had to physically remind herself to not reach for her own, not when those eyes were dark and almost feral, especially without Finch to call him off.

She scowled at him, trying to slow her heart down that had been attempting to beat out her chest. "It's just me John," she said annoyed; lifting up the bag of groceries in her hand as a peace offering.

A sheepish, almost embarrassed look seemed to weigh down his expression for a few brief moments before it was smoothed away. "You really should knock detective," he said, unconsciously mirroring the words Finch had used when he had found napping on his desk.

"Apparently," she said dryly, walking closer, pointedly eyeing Finch. "He gonna be alright?"

A flash of guilt and rage chased across Reese's features as Carter inadvertently reminded him of Finch's injuries. "He just needs rest," he said shortly, resuming his place by his partner's side once more.

Carter huffed in amusement, setting the bag down on the nearby coffee table. "You know John, you should get some rest yourself. Constantly watching him isn't going to make him heal any faster."

He simply glanced up at her with the same eyes a dog would show if someone had attempted to tell the creature that its unquestionable loyalty was no longer needed. To Reese, the idea of leaving Finch for even a moment wasn't even to be considered, not until he was thoroughly reassured that Harold was going to be ok and even then, he'd still be nearby. Just in case.

Loyal guard dog that he is.

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**A/N: I hope you liked it. As usual, please tell me if you find any mistakes and I'll fix them right away.**

**Review please.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Don't own.  
Pairing/Characters: Reese/Finch, Carter  
Summary: Immediate sequel of my "Guard Dog" chapter.  
A/N: Holy shit, I'm alive. I've been sitting on this chapter for awhile now.

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_Guard Dog II_

She found him there the next day too, although the little guy was awake albeit moving more slowly than usual. She swallowed a laugh when she saw Reese's version of hovering, which was basically standing at attention, his eyes never wavering as he silently readied himself to help or catch Finch if his body were to fail him.

Even when she had delivered the groceries to Reese, she lingered, even when Finch had given her an unfathomable look of annoyance. She ignored it, pointedly making herself comfortable on the nearest chair.

Reese had only given her a curious once-over after he had returned from the kitchen, but then offered his arm to Finch, allowing the crippled man to use him to lever himself to his feet.

Carter was amazed at the concern that bled so obviously into Reese's eyes and was tempted to hit Finch (regardless of the unspeakable things John would do to her) for not noticing. But then again, his entire body spoke of pain, from the tight jaw and the white knuckles clutching John's arm, to the silent agony that expressed itself in every line on his face.

When the man was finally as steady as he was ever going to get, the hand clutching John's forearm slowly eased its tight grip, although refused to completely let go.

"Thank you Mr. Reese," the little guy said, his voice tight with pain. And as if suddenly realizing she was still here, he managed to twist his upper body around to give her a withering glare. "Was there something you still needed, _detective_?"

"No," she said honestly, "but I have nowhere else to be and I thought you guys might appreciate some help." It was true; today was one of her few days off and Taylor was spending the night at a friend's house, hopefully not getting into too much trouble.

"We'll be fine Carter," Reese said, maneuvering his arm so he could grab Finch's elbow, offering him more stability.

Sometimes she swore those two shared a brain—stubborn idiots the both of them. "Help Finch back to bed and _I'll _start lunch."

The world seemed to pause for a few, lingering moments before time jump-started again as they looked at her as if she had lost her mind; Carter rolled her eyes at them, silently praying for patience and that by the time this thing was over, those two had better be together or so help her…

"That really isn't necessary detective Carter," Finch said, "You should go be with your son."

Oh, guilt-tripping. As a mom she was an expert with this technique, but unfortunately for Finch it had no effect on her.

"Taylor's at a friend's house for the weekend and as I'm sure you know I'm off for several days." She had no idea why the chief was giving her a three-day weekend and she was sure by the end it, she'd be driving herself mad from boredom.

And what better way to relieve said boredom than by _helping_ them.

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_Reviews are love._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

A/N: Prompt by the awesome : Reese calls Finch from jail just to hear his voice.I hope you like it!

Pairing: Reese/Finch pre-slash

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_Voice in My Ear_

"Make it fast John," Carter hissed in his ear as she dropped the burn phone off into his waiting hands.

He simply nodded, the weight of a cellphone a surprising comfort to him, his last link to his best friend who, if he had any say in it, would never find _himself_ in the situation Reese had foolishly allowed himself to get caught in. He glanced through the bars of his cell, assuring himself that the guards were gone before flipping the phone open. His fingers dialed the familiar numbers without any conscious thought on his part and as the line connected he felt the cold, dark weight in his chest begin to ease and anticipation swell in his gut.

"John?"

He released the pent up sigh that he had't even been aware of holding as he heard the familiar, bird-like voice of his employer. His lips softened into a faint smile, "Harold." The name was breathed out, as if in reverence.

There was a long pause, both unsure of what to say to the other.

John hesitated before finally finding his tongue, "I heard Fusco helped you out with our latest number." Even locked up Reese would always think of the numbers as _theirs_, the truth behind every social security number was known only to them.

A huff of amusement was heard through the phone, "Yes. Your pet detective has turned out to be quite a resourceful asset; you trained him well, Mr. Reese."

_Mr. Reese_. God, John's missed hearing that.

Another pause, each second growing heavier as the words that went unsaid mounted. Finch broke the growing silence with unwavering resolve hardening his soft voice, "We'll get you out of there John, I _promise_."

John wanted to discourage him, he didn't want Harold putting himself at risk for a man like him. His kind could be found anywhere, but he knew Harold wouldn't listen. It was a trait they both shared: stubbornness. They would take the world apart, person by person, city by city to find each other, or in Finch's case, the reclusive genius could bring the world to its knees, topple governments all to save one man.

So, as much as John wanted Harold to stay away, to stay safely tucked in his nest he knew he wouldn't, so John didn't ask. Instead he simply said, "I know Harold."

He ended the call before it became too hard of letting go of his last link to this man and quickly took apart the phone, crushing the battery beneath his heel.

He hid the remnants beneath his mattress before sitting down again. He closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath holding on to the phone call he had just ended, replaying it over and over. He held the memory carefully with both hands, keeping it close to his chest. Reese knew these next few days would be trying at best and recently, it was Harold's memory that he found himself clinging to.

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